


All Things Burn in the Tawny Hour

by forbiddenarchives



Category: Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blow Jobs, Greek and Roman Mythology - Freeform, M/M, Masturbation, faun!Q
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-26
Updated: 2014-10-26
Packaged: 2018-02-22 15:04:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2511995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forbiddenarchives/pseuds/forbiddenarchives
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The forest is a vast, primal book waiting to be read. It rustles and whispers and howls. Even in the dark it tells stories, the soft thunk of paws hitting the ground, the hush of a hedgehog slipping away.</p><p>(Or, the one where Q is a faun and Bond gets lost in his forest.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Things Burn in the Tawny Hour

**Author's Note:**

> A huge thanks to my betas [isanah](http://isanah.tumblr.com), who helped with pacing and plot details, and the magnificent [maltypass](http://maltypass.tumblr.com), who's just been amazing throughout all of this. Without your careful eye, this fic wouldn't be half as good, and I can't thank you enough.
> 
> Inspired by [this](http://forbiddenarchives.tumblr.com/post/100948552518/luspea-i-havent-seen-these-ones-before) and [this](http://forbiddenarchives.tumblr.com/post/95214798608/thego-slow-i-havent-been-appreciating-this) and [this](http://forbiddenarchives.tumblr.com/post/98408283983/ben-whishaw-at-the-cannes-film-festival-2009). Because I am a terrible person.

 

 

 _Ondoie une blancheur animale au repos :_  
 _Et qu’au prélude lent où naissent les pipeaux,_  
 _Ce vol de cygnes, non ! de naïades se sauve_  
 _Ou plonge…_  
Inerte, tout brûle dans l’heure fauve

— Stéphane Mallarmé: L'après-midi d'un faune

 

 

A vague sense of dread settles, darkness falls. Moss-covered greenery envelopes him, tree tops intertwining far above his head to swallow up the last light of day. Even the crickets grow quiet here. This deep into the woods there are larger animals about, the hunters and the hunted. The hooting of an owl. He should never have lost his weapon. 

By now he can barely make out the path that winds through the dense underbrush. Roots trip him, and the nightjars’ churring song turns into mockery. He stumbles into rustling branches that scratch his face and tangle even in his short, shorn hair. Plucking leaves and twigs off his shirt, he knows it’s time to find a place to rest but the will to forge his way out of this is stronger. He will not be deterred. 

The forest is a vast, primal book waiting to be read. It rustles and whispers and howls. Even in the dark it tells stories, the soft thunk of paws hitting the ground, the hush of a hedgehog slipping away. He feels his way forward where the blackness suggests only nothingness and is caught short by the blinding crash of his head into sturdiest wood. Stars burst into existence and he staggers, his surprise mixing with the sudden distress of anyone who has ever underestimated a book. His eyes have nothing to hold onto anymore and his hands try, but they can’t keep the ground from meeting him halfway. He smashes into it, and his palms sting, his vision wavers, and then—more blackness.

 

 

When he wakes, the bright morning is already half gone. Sunlight streams through the canopy, picking out spots on the ground where juvenile undergrowth stretches into life. A mighty oak has kept him shaded. He pulls himself to his feet and circles around it, assessing the situation. There is no path, no means to find out which direction he came from. Last night’s stumble through the woods ought to have left marks, but around him everything is untouched and impeccable, the grass uncrumpled, the flowers’ stalks unbent.

He feels for the pouch in his shirt pocket, reassurance pressed against his breastbone. Cards his hands through sunshot hair and thinks. If he can find a more open space, the sun’s angle will help him get his bearings. If he discovers bushes full of berries, he can eat. Both prospects appeal to him, but none as much as the idea of leaving this maze of trees and moss behind. He releases a breath and winds his way through the undergrowth.  

He heads to where the woods are sparsest, only to find the trees growing bigger and older, some gnarled with life, others broad and tall. A largeness opens up and encloses him like a cathedral, organically formed, yet he almost expects it to echo. Bluebells carpet the ground and cushion his steps. A blackcap cries. He can’t bring himself to say a word. The wind blows through the tree tops and the play of sun on leaves makes him dizzy, like a thousand mirrors reflecting a thousand suns, spots of light dancing on the forest floor. He leans against a tree to catch his breath while the sun grows hotter. 

Finally, he stumbles onto the remnants of a path. It leads him to a large grey boulder and a whole spiderweb of paths, which is almost as useful as no path at all. A frustrated snort escapes him. He makes a choice, and then another, and his stomach rumbles. He isn’t meant to be here, isn’t meant to cross the forest at all, but why go around when you can just push through? He’s never been one for cautious detours. Bushes and shrubs line his wanderings more frequently now, as he sticks to what he hopes is the right direction. 

He reaches the boulder again. 

He chooses another path, but this time he marks it with a twig, and the previous one too. He’s been trained for this; he can find his way through anything. This path is lined by beech trees, moss-covered old guardians of the forest. They watch him from up high, their crowns ancient and expansive, spread wide over their kingdom. Despite the bright skies somewhere high above he feels a chill, a deep unsettling in his bones. 

The boulder looms again. 

Another twig, another path and a sinking feeling in the pit of his guts. He has no provisions, no water. He’s tried to collect some moisture off of leaves, but he is a hunter, not a gatherer. He points and kills. It’s not a skill set that’s ever seemed particularly limiting, but now the trees are leaning in on him; branches crack. He can’t shoot trees, can he? Not without a gun, anyway. A bush rustles. His shoulders tense. 

Suddenly, a voice, just behind his ear. 

“Shhh. Left here.” 

He whirls around, but there’s nobody there, just the deserted stretch of ground behind him. Looking to the left he can barely make out an overgrown track leading into dense green thickets. It does not look promising. A shiver runs up his spine and he shakes his head, shakes off these dangerous, intrusive thoughts. His imagination is playing tricks on him. 

He continues on the path he’s chosen, which grows wider and lighter and then—the boulder. A cold breeze tugs through the trees and he imagines he can hear faint laughter ringing out all around him. His breath catches, his throat is parched. He inspects the paths spinning away from the boulder, more than half of them marked with twigs, but—  

These are the wrong twigs, on the wrong tracks. 

Everything is slipping sideways, leaving his world spinning around him. A quick scan of the forest reveals nothing, and he slowly picks the twigs up one by one. They feel clammy and cold and every single one of his senses is waiting for someone or something to pounce. His heart thumps hard against his ribcage. Nothing happens. The forest is still. His hands twitch to hurl the twigs back into the woods, back to where they came from, but the impulse dies as soon as it’s rushed through him. He drops them instead, wants no part of them, and hurries down another path. There is no sense in this. Only a wild guessing, a blind stumbling through the forest’s green gloaming.

This new path turns out to be the same one as before, with the leaning trees crowding him in and a thick canopy blocking out the sun. The track where he imagined the voice is still there, the underbrush almost impenetrable. He pushes his way through. The ground is uneven and overgrown, and branches tear at his hair and clothes and snap back into his face. Something rips, but he doesn’t stop to look. 

“Well done.” 

It’s the voice again. Low and melodious, like a rustle, then more. A foreign tongue that makes sense only after a moment’s delay when the brain has caught up with the pattern. 

“I knew you’d learn sooner or later.” 

“Who’s there?” he says, but there is only laughter in response, bouncing back and forth between the tree trunks, impossible to pinpoint. 

A rustle ahead of him. 

“This way.” 

He follows the voice until he comes to a crossing, turns right when the voice tells him to, and right again shortly after. The track becomes more accessible, as if the underbrush has been cut back. 

“Stop.” 

He stops. The voice is far too close for comfort and still, no matter where he turns, it’s always right behind him. 

“Fifty yards ahead you’ll find a dead oak, split in two. Turn right until you get to a cluster of hollies. Search the ground. Then come back here. Stop by the old beech tree on your way back.” 

These commands are given with such assurance they make his eyes go wide and his shoulders snap to attention. But something in him responds and he finds his limbs moving of their own accord. He’s already spotted the oak and then, winding his way through young trees and shrubs, the hollies. The ground is covered in flowers and dead leaves that crunch underfoot and when he looks more closely he finds not one trap but two, each holding a dead rabbit. Under the old beech tree there’s a pile of dry wood, excellent for building a fire. For a moment he’s tempted to do just that, right here, his stomach growling fearfully, but then he remembers the voice. He is not done here yet. He slings the rabbits over his shoulder and grabs a pile of wood. 

All is quiet when he returns to the track. Then, a whisper like a soft brush of wind: 

“Here.”

Another track reveals itself to him. He follows it to a vast clearing, thick grass shot through with wildflowers and dappled with sun. Drunk butterflies flutter and sway in irregular figures. A river rushes in the distance. Thirst and exhaustion catch up with him and he swears, dropping the firewood. He can’t wait to get his hands in the water. As soon as he’s reached the riverbank he drinks greedily, rivulets running down his shirt, the satisfying sting of clear, cold freshness in his throat. When he’s sated, he falls backwards into the tall grass. His stomach is appeased for a moment and a smile sneaks over his face.

“That was pleasant to watch.” 

He jolts upright, his elation vanished. 

“Who are you?” he says. “Show yourself.” 

At first there is silence, then a crackling in the undergrowth nearest to him. It’s the blinking of eyes that gives it away. Green eyes framed by dark lashes, almost blending in with the forest, but as soon as he’s noticed them, the rest comes into focus like stars on a summer’s night. A pale, luminous face, with dark brows and a broad mouth, framed by a wild shock of hair that stands up in all directions. A row of sharp white teeth flashes when the owner of the voice steps forward and laughs. He is naked apart from a pair of dirty linen trousers that cling to his hips, and his legs— 

There is something wrong with his legs. In the tall grass he can’t quite make out what it is, but the way the boy moves is odd. Fluid and graceful, but odd. The boy shoots him a grin. There is an unnatural bend to his legs when he kneels down next to the firewood and Bond’s stomach twists. The boy takes a knife from his pocket and begins to skin the rabbits methodically, instantly absorbed in his work. 

“My name’s James,” Bond says. 

Somehow this sun-dappled meadow doesn’t seem to be the right place for surnames, but the boy doesn’t ask. Doesn’t give any indication he’s heard.

“And you?”

The boy looks up, his eyes skipping somewhere far beyond, then back to him. 

“I don’t have a name. Call me Q.” 

Deep lines appear on Bond’s forehead. He takes in Q’s lean frame, his bare chest, the small but distinct curve of his biceps as he works on the rabbit. Has he been abandoned in the woods because he’s different? He looks terrifyingly young, but Bond has experience enough to know that looks aren’t always truth. Q’s head is bent, sharp features turned away. There is something else there, but Bond can’t make it out, can’t put his finger on it. Q sucks on his lower lip in concentration, jawline shadowed with stubble.

Bond doesn’t realise he’s staring until Q looks up. 

“Don’t you want to get the fire going?” 

Q makes it sound like it’s the most reasonable thing in the world to tell Bond what to do, and Bond nods and reaches for the firewood, then feels ridiculous for blindly obeying this _boy_. He _is_ going to call him that, because accurate or not it’s definitely the least unsettling out of all possible options. 

“Actually, I think I might—” 

He jerks his head towards the river. 

“Of course.” 

Cold, clear water. He splashes a handful in his face, washes his face and neck. Notices the cuts on his shirt, his half-torn sleeve, the stains on what used to be crisp and white. He shimmies out of his shirt to survey the damage. His t-shirt is still intact and so is the pouch. He’s lucky he didn’t get any water on it earlier; M would have his head on a spike if he ruined this mission. He needs to keep a clear head and not let any old—

His senses scream danger at him. He spins around, and Q is right there. Close enough to touch if he were to reach out. He’s staring at the bundle in Bond’s hands, head cocked, and Bond has to fight the urge to hide it behind his back. He places it behind him instead. When he gets up the scent of wildflowers hits him like a landslide, full and heavy, the ground unstable. The heat of the sun pounds into his back and lights up the boy’s face, turning his eyes into pale green embers. 

Q blinks against the light. He’s almost as tall as Bond but so much narrower, finely built like a poet’s invention. Long, slim fingers grasp Bond’s shoulder and skim down his arm. It’s only the surprise that the boy is real and tangible, that his hands are warm on his skin, that keeps Bond from instantly breaking his wrist. Q circles around him, his touch light on Bond’s side, his back. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” 

Bond tries for forbidding, he really does, and will never admit that it comes out a bit shaky.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” 

Q smirks, and now Bond does grab his wrist. Pulls him in, and it’s meant to be a threat, but with Q’s face close to his all he can see is pupils blown black and full lips slightly parted. Q rips his hand free and inhales against his mouth and then Bond finds himself falling forward and into a kiss, into the black of his eyes, and Q is staggering against him, half-feral and stronger than he looks. Teeth rasp over his skin and brush against his lips and then Q’s mouth opens beneath him. It’s soft and tastes of summer, of rich, fertile soil, a fullness that rushes through him and goes straight to his groin. Hands run over him, dig into bristly short hair, pull his body close. Bond’s erection grinds into sharp hipbone and Q moans into his mouth, a delighted, muffled sound. Moments later, Q’s hands dip under his t-shirt, lifting it up, and when Bond pulls it up over his head Q is definitely not looking at his face anymore. 

“Not many people get lost in my forest these days,” Q breathes, “and few as fine as you, James.” 

Bond wants to chuckle at this, but it catches in his throat. Q licks his lips. He still hasn’t taken his eyes off Bond’s body. His fingers trace a line down Bond’s chest and over the hard ridges of his stomach to the tapering V of his hips. Bond feels on display, a lion led into slaughter. His job tends to involve what is loosely termed ‘seduction’, but not like this, not when the parameters of the situation are so completely out of his control. He isn’t sure he minds, though, not now, because Q’s hand has wandered from his hip to his bulging cock, touching him through his trousers. Q sinks down to his knees. 

He pushes down his pants, and hazy green eyes mirror the forest as they smirk up at him. Q wraps a hand around his cock, and when he strokes him it’s all focus and determination, like a scientist testing a hypothesis. He experiments with grip and rhythm until Bond gasps and then his warm, soft mouth closes around him. Q’s cheeks grow hollow, and Bond’s hips stutter forward, wanting to push deeper, but Q uses his other hand to steady him, keeps him still with a tight grasp on his hipbone. With a shudder Bond realises he is lost, that there is nothing he can do. Q has him helpless and exposed and this must never happen, not to a double-oh agent, but with the boy’s hands and lips and tongue on him there is nothing else he wants. He is here, and he gives himself over. 

Q’s lips stretch around his length beautifully, his tongue flicking at the sensitive underside while one hand pumps his cock and the other holds him still. Perhaps Q senses his surrender, because now he takes him deep until he hits the back of his throat again and again. The hand that was wrapped around his cock disappears, and when Bond looks down he finds that Q has rucked down his own trousers and from this angle Bond can’t quite see what Q is doing, but he can _guess_. He can guess from the angle of Q’s arm and from the self-explanatory, steady working of his muscles even as Q’s lips, wrapped around Bond’s cock, and his messy hair block out the rest. It’s the things he can’t see that almost send him over the edge. He grabs a fistful of Q’s hair and starts to direct him, makes him take it the way he likes. This time Q lets him and grows pliant, matches his strokes to Bond’s, intent on his own pleasure. 

With his own arousal building, Bond pulls out. He doesn’t want this to end just yet; he wants to see Q’s face, tilted up so he has to look at Bond, lips red and swollen, cheeks flushed and eyes wide with lust, etching closer to his own release. Bond gives himself a few strokes taking in the sight, and when he feeds Q his cock again, Q _moans_. A low, vibrating sound all around him and Q fucks his mouth on Bond’s cock and gasps between thrusts, his own hands working frantically to get himself off. Bond buries his hands in Q’s hair, feels rough bulges that don’t make sense hidden beneath the tangles, and before he quite knows what he’s doing Q moans again and Bond clenches his fingers into Q’s hair and pushes in and the world whites out around him. 

His knees give out at some point and Q must have come too, because when Bond’s vision becomes clear again he’s sitting among wildflowers with Q across from him and Q’s belly is streaked with white. He looks up at Bond and grins and a dull pleasure pools in Bond’s stomach, and— 

Yes. Those are horns sticking out of Q’s unruly curls, barely noticeable unless you know how to look for them. From what he can make out the boy’s legs aren’t quite human either—they’re furry and twisted and animal, lagging several evolutionary steps behind his hairless upper body. Bond has had some post-coital surprises in his career, he has to admit, but none quite like this. 

Then his stomach rumbles and Q gives him a knowing smile and Bond decides to ignore these insignificant details in favour of other, more pressing matters: 

“I am starving.” 

 

 


End file.
